Captured: A Better Left Unsaid Fanfiction
by russianwinter013
Summary: The Autobots manage to capture Deathstrike, but will they be prepared for the horrors the mysterious Decepticon brings?
1. Strange Introductions and Encounters

**Here's a short story that ties in with my other, _Better Left Unsaid_. I was going to make it a part of it later on, but I can't tie it in smoothly. So here you go! **

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><p>Arcee approached the 'Con, who was still being held captive in the brig. As she approached, he sensed her coming and hissed, his wings straining against their restraints. In their cuffs, his long thin claws flexed menacingly. How he was able to move at all in the stasis cuffs, she didn't know. But the thing that made her so agitated around him wasn't the fact that he could move in stasis cuffs, it was his strangeness. How was a Cybertronian so much like an animal, so feral and violent? This Decepticon, designated Deathstrike, was one of the strangest 'Cons she had ever met. She didn't know his past, except that he had brutally murdered Wheeljack's brother.<p>

"Enough," she ordered as she shut the door behind her. "You're not an animal."

He narrowed his optics. "How do you know?"

She glared back, still put off by his voice. He had a strange accent; it was unnatural, and something you wouldn't want to hear in the dark.

"You're not," she stated sharply, crossing her servos. "I have some questions I need you to answer."

A low growl rumbled through him. _"'Need'?"_

"Let me rephrase that." Arcee moved closer, glaring directly at him despite that he was twice her size. "You _will_ answer my questions. You have no choice, seeing as though you're our prisoner."

Deathstrike scoffed at 'prisoner'. "I would do this for what reason?" His glare became cold.

"I could bring in Wheeljack and have him question you, if you like."

"Wheeljack cannot harm me." His accent suddenly became thicker, making her even more curious. She had heard plenty of accents from tons of places—Praxus, Simfur, Kalis, Kaon, Iacon, and even the Towers—but his was unique.

"It confuses you, does it not?" His deep voice startled her.

"What?" she snapped.

"It startles you." At her look of annoyed confusion, he snarled quietly. "My accent."

"You're a telepath?" As if he didn't have enough strange abilities.

"Believe it if you will—" He cut off abruptly, turning and leaning against the nearest wall as a bout of harsh coughing shook his lean frame. Arcee could the Energon he brought up and made a mental note to tell Ratchet. Deathstrike was too valuable a prisoner to die in the brigs from internal bleeding or a severe sickness. She waited until he was finished to continue.

"Why did you do it?" She was surprised at how gentle her voice sounded. This was the mech who had brutally murdered Wheeljack's brother and _enjoyed_ it.

Deathstrike shuttered his optics, his claws flexing once more. After a moment, he opened them and did not meet her eyes. "I was different back then," the strange mech murmured as he sat on the outstretched berth near him. "Things have changed." His wings strained against their restraints, and they creaked ominously. If he was strong enough to break his bonds, they would have to make new ones. Not even Starscream was that strong.

"Different how?" she pressed.

He looked up at her and she resisted from internally shuddering. His optics were completely black, save for dark red rings serving as pupils. They were cold and held no emotion, and in the dim lighting they blazed. They stared at each other for a moment, and his wings pushed at his restraints.

"Stop doing that." The noise was driving her insane, but it would also be bad if he got loose.

"My wings move of their own accord, I have not flown for centuries, and I do not do well in confined spaces." His voice became raspy, and as another fit hit him, she thought about his words. She knew and had known many Seekers, and their wings moved with their moods, but many would go stir-crazy if they hadn't flown for a few days, let alone centuries. Maybe it explained his insanity.

"Ratchet." She the medic as she exited the brig. "The captive is either bleeding internally or is severely ill. He's coughing up a lot of Energon."

_"If he was bleeding internally, he could choke on or cough up Energon, but it would depend on the amount expelled as well as the thickness and rate it was expelled. But I can't tell how **you** would know this, but—"_ The Autobot CMO cut off from his voiced musings, realization hitting him. _"Arcee, you didn't go in there **alone,** did you? Deathstrike is far too dangerous for you to be alone with him."_

"Relax, Ratchet. He didn't do anything and I wouldn't have let him if he tried."

_"As stubborn as always, you are."_ His gruff voice softened a bit, but still held its familiar severity and harshness. The line disconnected as she entered med-bay.

"He's a creepy one, isn't he?" Smokescreen said, watching the femme as she entered. A curious glint sparked in his optics, and it was obvious that he wanted to know more about their captive.

"One of the creepiest," Bulkhead stated. "The 'Con's best assassin, unless they recruit Soundwave as one. He's known for his insanity, and how beastly he is."

"That's probably what he wants others to think," Arcee retorted. "He didn't seem insane to me, unless his sickness hides it."

"He's sick?" Smokescreen questioned, his doorwings flicking the air. "He wasn't when we captured him. He was more…_ resistant_ than sick."

"You mean when Optimus shot him repeatedly," Ratchet added. He now had more work to do and was not pleased when the others had told him of the way the Prime had taken him down. They needed a _healthy_ prisoner, not one who was coughing up their own life-blood.

"If he hadn't, Deathstrike would have killed us all," Arcee snapped. "He has a knack for it, and seems to have a grudge against Bulkhead."

"Well, he _is_ as clumsy as Primus knows what," Smokescreen muttered. When the Wrecker turned to glare at him, he raised his servos and backed away, his doorwings shuddering. "I'm just saying—you are."

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><p>"Ratchet." The Prime entered, his baritone voice rumbling like thunder and his steps shaking the ground.<p>

The medic didn't turn, but looked over his shoulder panel. "Yes?"

"I have heard the others speaking about the fact that our prisoner may be unwell."

"I'm not so sure yet. I have much to do and have yet to visit him. Arcee says he was coughing up Energon."

"Investigate the problem." When Ratchet turned to glare in disbelief, the Prime's gaze hardened, but glowed with the familiarity and warmth of an old friendship. "The computers will not vanish, and I will be sure that Bulkhead will not break your tools." He watched the medic leave.

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><p><strong>Yeah, well...there's that! Hope you liked! If you do not understand who Deathstrike is, his bio is on my profile and he is the main character in my other story <em>Better Left Unsaid. <em>Feel free to check them out! :)**

**Bye!**


	2. Frightening Danger

**Okay, Chapter 2! A lot of stuff, possibly slightly longer than the first one. Three won't be up for a moment.**

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><p>Ratchet moved down the hallway towards the brig. He had medical supplies stored in his subspace, in case their captive's injuries were too severe to be delayed repair. As he approached, he wondered about Deathstrike's supposed insanity. He was considered beastly and insane on the battlefield; he had repaired gruesome wounds caused by his accuracy and had heard horrific stories about how the Deception assassin would suddenly become feral, snarling and snapping with the ferocity of a mad Predacon.<p>

The brig was dark when he entered. There was more than one cell, the biggest and farthest from the door being Deathstrike's. Had he not been a Seeker—they were known for becoming stir-crazy if they were confined too long—he would have had a smaller cell. At the moment, the Decepticon was sitting on a lounge berth, his side to the door. His helm was bowed and his wings were raised high and straining, the ominous creaking reminding him of Arcee's story. There were faint traces of Energon in the nearby waste bin, and the medic narrowed his optics unconsciously, searching for a reason on why there was expelled Energon.

"What have you come to bother me about now?" The Con's voice was deep, nearly as low as Optimus', and was tinted with a strange accent, maybe even a hybrid one.

"I've been told you were ill."

"You believe I cannot repair myself?" He turned his helm slightly, optics narrow and filled with irritation and exhaustion. "I _am_ the Decepticon medic."

Shock hit the Autobot like a physical attack. "You're the Decepticon _medic?"_

"That is what I said." His wings creaked, and the faint groan that came from the restraints worried the medic only slightly. The one he was speaking to _was _a Decepticon, after all.

"You are known for your occupation as an assassin." The Autobot crossed his servos.

A growl came from the other. "Fear is an essential factor in the Decepticon ranks."

"You Decepticons and your ridiculous philosophies."

The Decepticon faced him completely and his cold, black optics pierced him to the core. He was scowling, and the glint of light on metal exposed his fangs. "You Autobots and your inconsequential heroics."

"Enough with the distractions," Ratchet snapped. "Why are you ill? You fought the others perfectly fine earlier and now you're coughing up your own life-blood. _Why?_"

Deathstrike's wing restraints creaked. "It is a condition I have," he began. Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, and suddenly the Decepticon was dangerously close. "And I do not wish to speak about it."

The CMO scowled, not at all put off by the other's close presence but taking note of Deathstrike's well-shown irritation. "Then how am I to help you?"

Deathstrike snarled. "I do not require your help. Have your teammates let me rest." He turned and headed back to his seat on the berth.

Ratchet scoffed, but could not help but notice the strong limp the other had in his leg. "You know I can't do that."

The Decepticon turned to look at him, and the Autobot was surprised. Were his optics flickering with their last light? Was he really _dying?_ He ran a scan of the Decepticon's vitals. They were dangerously low and rapidly deteriorating.

"You are _dying_ and refusing help?" His voice sounded even more incredulous then he felt.

Deathstrike didn't answer. A violent shudder racked his frame, and he grasped the berth for support as his body tipped slightly, his claws tearing deep slashes in the refined metal as his wing restraints creaked and protested at the movement. His helm was bowed and his optics seemingly shuttered. His intakes rattled within his chassis, hoarse and uneven. It only made the medic worry even more.

"Deathstrike?"

The assassin shook his helm, his claws digging into his berth. Ratchet was at a loss on what to do. He could go in and try to help, but that would most likely end in Deathstrike lashing out or killing him. He could leave him and inform the others of his worsening condition, but if the entire group of Autobots poured into a room with an insane and sick Decepticon assassin, it would not end well.

Finally, he made up his mind.

The Autobot took a tentative step forward.

The Decepticon sensed the movement and snarled, glaring at the Autobot. Ratchet raised his servos, somewhat surprised at the sudden ferocity of the other. He could see the cracks forming on Deathstrike's wing clamps, and made a mental note to build stronger ones; he was aware that the said _strong_ ones in their possession were currently on the enraged Decepticon before him.

"Deathstrike, what is wrong?" Despite the assassin's obvious resistance and fury, his medical instincts still kicked in and forced him to make sure his patient was well—or as well as one could be while coughing up their own life-blood.

The other did not respond, his optics narrowing to dangerous slits as he tracked the Autobot's moves. Was this the insane Decepticon everyone was worrying about—or was it something else?

Ratchet had seen these symptoms before, in two of his old teammates, though their locations were unknown as of present. It had been the result of an outbreak, millennia ago, and to this day they were still coping.

It was obvious the same thing had happened to Deathstrike.

And it only made him more dangerous.

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><p>The Autobots turned as Ratchet entered the med-bay. A look of black anger was on his faceplate, as well as the minutest traces of worry and fear.<p>

"Ratchet, what is it?" Arcee approached the obviously raging Autobot.

"Stay out of the brig," was all he said.

"Why? What happened?" Smokescreen demanded, his optics shining and doorwings twitching in excitement. "Is he loose?"

The medic whirled on him, his armor flared. "Don't be a fool, Smokescreen! If he was loose, would I be alive?"

The Praxian took a step back, his doorwings twitching and showing his obvious alarm.

"Whoa, take it easy, Ratch. He didn't mean anything," Bulkhead insisted, staring back when the CMO's fiery glare turned on him.

"Ratchet." Optimus' voice sounded, and he appeared with silence belying his mass. "Is something wrong?"

"Optimus." The Autobot looked up at him, and the Prime could read the look in his gaze—he was worried and frightened. "May I speak with you," he began, glancing at the others, who were watching curiously, "Alone?"

The Prime dipped his helm with a quiet, "Of course," and led the medic to the clearing on the cliff.

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><p>"What troubles you so, old friend?" The massive Prime watched the medic pace the length of the cliff.<p>

"It is Deathstrike."

"Deathstrike worries many. It is in his nature."

"He does not make you worry unless you're on his strike list. He uses fear as a weapon."

"As does Megatron."

The medic glanced at his leader. His pacing slowed and stopped, his cerulean gaze fixed on some lone object, clouded with the hazy look of one lost in their thoughts.

"Do you recall our two comrades Prowl and Jazz?"

Optimus nodded. "I do, but I fail to see the relevance of them to our captive."

"The outbreak."

Optimus paused for a moment, his thoughts going back to the incident. "Deathstrike is one of them." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Yes. That is why we must stay out of the brig."

"No. If Deathstrike is one of the Changed, we both know he is strong enough to break out of the brig."

"Well, we can't just let him roam and refuel off of us," the medic scoffed.

"Nevertheless, should he regain enough strength to break from his containment, it would be catastrophic."

"How will we let him refuel? We sure as Primus won't let him feed off of us or give him any rations from our already limited stores."

"We do not." Ratchet narrowed his optics ever so slightly, and the Prime raised a hand before he could object. "Deathstrike would be tempted, should we allow him any options of refueling. We will wait and he _will_ come out of his homicidal tendencies." The massive Prime headed to the door.

"How can you be so sure?"

Optimus stopped in his tracks, turning his helm to fix his gaze on the medic. "He has no choice." The Prime's voice was grave and held the slightest hint of restrained anger. "Should he break free, or show any means of harming my team, I will **_not_** hesitate to use whatever force is necessary."

"He will not hesitate in retaliating should he feel threatened." The medic met the Prime's gaze with defiance. "Optimus, with all due respect, he _is_ my patient. I am seeing to his wellbeing, and being threatened by anyone—let alone a massive Prime like you, the ruler of his enemies—will be detrimental to his health."

Optimus considered the CMO's words. "Very well. Keep my warning in mind, but do what you must to heal him."

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><p><strong>Ooh, a little overprotective Optimus! Did you like? <strong>

**Oh, Note: _The Outbreak_ is mentioned in Deathstrike's biography. For those of you who did not read it for some unknown reason, I will explain it.**

**A viral outbreak occurred during the Golden Age in a Circuit Su and Cyberninja training facility. Little was done to contain it, for it had happened in the slums of Kaon near the Pits, and every being there was infected with an incurable virus that made the infected become overwhelmed by a vampire-like rage. Only the strongest of will were able to control the rage while others drove themselves mad and attempted to terminate the wrong people. Deathstrike is one of the infected, and while he has most control over his "second personality," he is known to let it take over on the battlefield, hence Ratchet's memories of the stories of Deathstrike's supposed insanity.**

**Hope that explained! R&R, pleaze! :)**


	3. Revelation

**Okay, this has been revised! I changed only a little...you would probably only be able to notice it if you looked real close. Enjoy!**

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><p>He vented, long and deep, his optics shuttered and chassis motionless. It hadn't resurfaced yet, but he knew the signs—insatiable hunger, dark rage, and black insanity.<p>

_Keep your hold. Do not lose control._

Attacking the Autobot medic would not fare well for him, despite his ability to defend himself against any assailant. The Autobots would deem him a force that could not be controlled, and would either—at least, from his experiences—imprison him for a long time or execute him. The medic was capable of defending himself to an extent; he recalled the Synth-En incident he had heard the Vehicons prattling about. Had he had more energy—medics tended to be running on fumes in order to get their patients' ailments in order—his massive knowledge of the Cybertronian body would prove to be a great leverage on the Autobots' side of the battlefield.

_Keep your hold. Do not lose control._

The mantra helped little; the fire still tore through him. Gritting his dentia, his hands clenched into fists and he shook his helm. The tremors started again, only increasing the pain.

_No_. _You cannot afford such troubles right_ _now_. _Fight it. Control._

The tremors died down somewhat, and he was able to relax.

But not for long.

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><p>Wheeljack crawled out from under his ship, chassis and servos stained with coolant and oil. He wiped them off on a rag stored in his subspace, entering the med bay deep in his thoughts. He made a beeline for Ratchet, who was speaking with Optimus about another Ground Bridge malfunction.<p>

"Ratchet." He stopped near the two, servos crossed and jaw clenched. "Can I have a word with you?"

The medic turned, stopping in the middle of whatever he had said to Optimus. His cerulean optics narrowed slightly at the mech's sudden politeness, and silence screamed until he addressed the Prime towering over them. "Excuse me for a moment, would you, Optimus?"

The massive mech nodded, rumbling, "Of course."

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><p>"Spit it out."<p>

"Spit what out?"

"You are never this polite. What do you want?"

Wheeljack grinned. "Come on, Doc, you know—"

"Wheeljack." Ratchet crossed his servos and glared.

The Wrecker vented. "Fine. I want to speak to Deathstrike."

Ratchet shook his helm. "You know Optimus will not allow that."

Wheeljack raised his servos. "I ain't lookin' to off him, Ratch, I just want to ask a few questions."

"As to why he killed your brother?" Ratchet growled, showing a sudden anger as his armor flared. "Wheeljack, Deathstrike is _insane._ There is the smallest shred of logic in his processor, if there is any at all. He is an assassin, one that gets the job done and shrugs it off as if nothing happened."

"Don't you think I know that?" Wheeljack shot back, fire glinting in his optics. "Seriously, why can't I have an honest conversation with someone without them thinking I want to hurt them?"

"Because we _know_ you," the Autobot CMO snapped. "You went to have a conversation with Dreadwing, and ended up having your teammate—your _partner,_ for Primus' sake—almost blown to pieces."

"That was then. This is now," the Wrecker retorted. "I swear to Primus, Ratchet, I will not kill him."

The medic stared at him through narrow optics, suspicion clear in his gaze. Wheeljack held the stare defiantly.

Ratchet vented. "Very well. I'll be watching you on the cameras. Wheeljack, should you try anything—"

"Yeah, yeah." The Wrecker was already gone.

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><p>The brig was dark and cool when he entered. Activating his headlights, he headed to the 'Con's cell.<p>

The Seeker was sitting in the corner of his containment, his back to the cell's bars. His wings fanned the air, and if one looked close enough, the faint tremors shaking his chassis could be seen.

All the same, Deathstrike still sensed his presence and growled, "What do you want, Wheeljack?"

The Wrecker barked out a laugh. "What I want could be many things. Revenge, a fight, explanations." He crossed his servos, glaring at the other mech's wings.

Deathstrike laughed slightly until it turned into a harsh cough.

Wheeljack narrowed his optics. "You sick, 'Con?"

"I hardly see how you would concern yourself with my wellbeing," the other hissed in a slightly hoarse voice.

"Don't ya know how valuable you are?" the Wrecker retorted, a slight bite in his voice.

At this, Deathstrike turned, his black optics narrow, and rose from his seat on the floor. Heading over to the Autobot with menace in his limped stride, he bared his fangs. "If you have come only to reprimand me for my actions, I advise you to leave before I find a way to break free from this pathetic excuse for a prison and rip out your spark in the most painful way possible."

Wheeljack scoffed, crossing his servos and glaring. "You and I both know that if you were able to break out, you would have done so by now."

The 'Con bared his lengthening dentia, his optics blazing, as he looked ready to solidify his statement by subjecting the impertinent Wrecker before him to the most excruciating mental scan he could think of. His telepathy was no secret to the white Autobot. Wheeljack tensed, ready for attack. He stared in surprise as the Decepticon leaned back against the wall and _laughed._ It was not a chuckle or the rasping growl he was used to; it was a full, deep, powerful laugh that pierced his very spark.

"You have not changed one bit." Deathstrike stared at him, his optics burning. He leaned against his uninjured leg, using the wall near him for support. Despite his weakened state, Wheeljack found that the Decepticon assassin still radiated the same black storm of apathy and fury.

"You haven't either, _murderer,"_ Wheeljack growled, armor flaring from his frame.

"You are complimenting me? I am touched." Deathstrike grinned; it was a horrible thing that the Wrecker hoped he never saw again.

"You know why I'm here." He crossed his servos, narrowing his optics.

"Yes, I do." The Decepticon balked suddenly, turning and going into a violent coughing fit.

Wheeljack smirked at seeing his enemy felled by a mere virus. Deathstrike, one of the most powerful and feared 'Cons in history, locked in a cell and infected with a virus that made him bring up his own lifeblood. It was almost amusing, though he could not figure out what that nagging sensation in the back of his processor was...there was something...wrong...

"You are certain?"

The Autobot snapped from his thoughts, his fierce, icy optics fixing on the assassin, who had his fiery optics fixed on him.

"Do I _look_ like I'm not?" the Wrecker snarled, grating his dentia together as his servos clenched into fists. "I'm not playing any games, 'Con. I want to know the truth. Why did you kill Perceptor?"

Deathstrike snarled, his wings flaring. "You are absolutely _certain_ that you wish to know?"

Wheeljack bristled. "By the Allspark, Deathstrike, if you ask me that one more time—"

The Decepticon bared his fangs in that terrifying, sadistic grin of his. "Come closer. We cannot have the others hearing."

"Scared, 'Con?" Wheeljack scowled but did as told.

"Hardly." Deathstrike grit his dentia as his chassis shuddered violently, his armor flaring, making the Wrecker hesitate ever so slightly.

"You want to know why I killed your brother?" His voice was a menacing hiss, his accent strongly pronounced.

Wheeljack nodded, audios tuned to pick up every word the Decepticon was murmuring.

Deathstrike laughed lowly, a dark sound of sadistic mirth and intention. Before Wheeljack could figure out what he was so pleased about, he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his lower abdomen. Looking down, he saw the assassin's long razor claws imbedded deep into his armor. He could feel them tearing through vital internal organs as he twisted them inside of the other, his black optics burning with a fire straight from the pit. He watched as the assassin brought his digits to his mouth; feeling the hot Energon pour from the massive wound, he stared as the other licked the lifeblood from his claws, his optics burning a path into his mind.

The last words he heard before blacking out were:

_"Ask him when you have joined the Well."_

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><p><strong>Yes, I know that escalated kind of quickly. Were you surprised andor okay with the Perceptor/Wheeljack thing? It just came to me. Tell me what you think. This has been reposted. Only a few things added/revised. You like?**

**Bye!**


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